


Cremisius

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fight Scenes, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bull and Krem's first meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cremisius

**Author's Note:**

> Includes implied intended sexual assault (no such assault takes place). Also includes one very brief instance of unintentional misgendering when Bull isn't sure of Krem's gender.

Bull stands in the stream of people like a rock against a river.

They’re coming out of the tavern. A lot of them. Bull had intended to go  _into_  the tavern, for a drink or six (hard few weeks, nice to have a day off), but it seems like there’s a problem inside, which means he won’t get his drinking in, which is disappointing, yeah.

But mostly he’s curious. (That’s from the Ben-Hassrath training. Always be on the lookout for new information.) So he goes forward, people parting around him. From inside the tavern there’s screaming. Bull pauses for just a second. Not fear—whoever’s screaming is spitting out a steady string of threats and curses. Which is interrupted, as he’s listening, by a grunt of pain.

Bull opens the door.

There’s a fight going on, or not really, because it’s four guys against one. Their weapons aren’t drawn—instead they’re just grabbing at him. Capture, not kill. He’s making it as hard as he possibly can—scrambling across the floor, kicking, flailing, punching when he gets an arm free. His nose is bleeding, and one eye’s already started to swell. It’s only a matter of time before it’s over.

“This is no business of yours, Tal-Vashoth.” A fifth, standing by the door, a couple of feet to Bull’s left. “Best be on your way.”

Not the worst idea. They’re Tevinter military, all five of them. Not rank-and-file, either. That’s not standard-issue armor. Plus one of them’s wearing a red cloak with gold trim. An officer. He dodges a punch, snarls, belts the kid in the mouth. As his arm extends Bull catches a glimpse of the insignia. Tribune. Didn’t get there with money or favors, either. That’s a flail on his back. Hard weapon to master, and harder to defend.

“I said, you’d best be on your way.” The man’s voice isn’t so casual this time.

Bull thinks about it. He’s not really inclined to just leave—if a group of Vints want something, it’s always a good idea to keep it away from them. Talking them down is the best option here. There’s at least five of them, so a fight will hurt at the very least, and Bull’s skeptical of his chances of winning. He isn’t armed, isn’t even in armor. Only one flail among them, true, but the rest have longswords. A versatile weapon. More bad news.

The kid must be getting tired because the four guys manage to grab him, and they haul him up on the bar, slam him down on his back. He’s struggling, still screaming—there’s the fear. _“Get off me, get off me, get off me!”_

The tribune belts him again in the face, then goes for the laces of his trousers.

Okay. Not talking them down. Bull picks up a half-full stein of ale from the nearest table and hurls it.

He’s kind of hoping it’ll knock one of them out—their helmets aren’t on. But the guy moves, and the stein just glances off the back of his head. He turns with an indignant shout.

Time to fight.

Bull should’ve gone for the fifth guy first. Probably could have snapped his neck before anyone else noticed, improved the odds to four on one. But he didn’t want to give any of these assholes the chance to get that kid’s trousers open. Now the fifth guy is backed up, out of range, and drawing. Like they all are. And Bull doesn’t have a weapon. Crap. He picks up a round table, one of the smaller ones, and tucks the central leg under his left arm. It’ll do for a shield—he can’t bash with it, it’s too unstable, but it’ll block a few blows.

They don’t charge straight in—instead they fan out, close in with caution. Because they’re professionals and they know what they’re doing. Bull keeps his back flat against the wall. They can still bracket him, but with the makeshift shield he might survive, and it’s better than letting them get around behind him. Four longswords and a flail. Fuck. The kid slumps back against the bar, breathing hard, and glances behind him. Maybe having the same thought Bull is. If they put a guy on the front door, they probably had one on the back too. Six on one. Bull grimaces. Bad odds. Really bad odds.

A soldier steps in. Bull exhales. He’s gonna take some hits, nothing to be done about that. These guys are probably used to fighting Qunari. But he’s still got advantages, and he’ll lean on those as hard as he can—long arms, so he can grab at them; long legs, so he can move faster than they can follow. A longsword thrust at his middle. Bull gets his forearm inside it, diverts the thrust into the wall behind him. The edge slices his arm to the bone— _ow_ —and he tilts the table down to block the chop at his knee. He didn’t see it coming, just saw the flicker of movement, just had a feeling. But there’s a dull impact on the wood. He guessed right.

The soldier attenuates the thrust when he sees it’s going off-course, so his weapon doesn’t get stuck in the wall—because they’re  _good,_  because Bull couldn’t have stumbled into a group of new recruits, he had to find a damn tribune, and he just couldn’t walk away and save his own sorry, soon-to-be-dead ass—and another one comes in, thrusting straight at Bull’s middle. Shit. Yeah, he’s gonna take this one. He knocks it up with the back of his wrist, and it misses his heart, jams into his right shoulder instead.

A searing pain in the muscle to the left of his neck.  _Ow._  Where the fuck did that come from? His eyes flick up, just for a split-second—he’s already anticipating the follow-up thrust and pushes it over his shoulder this time—

The sixth guy, standing behind the bar. A bolter. Had to be. He’s already reloading his crossbow. Fuck. Not hard to hit an enemy who’s a head above everyone else. Motion. Bull heaves the table. The longsword skims off the upper edge, slices through his cheek and ear. He’s got a hand up at his own neck because the other guy’s blade is right next to it. Third guy’s about to come in and get him in the gut. It’s time to move.

Bull barges to his left, leading with his shield. He has to sidestep, or he’ll show them his back. The soldier to his left could probably try and stop him, but lets him go instead. Why risk it? They’ve already gotten him four times in five seconds. The arm, the shoulder, the face, and that damn bolt. A minute from now they’ll be halfway through cutting the horns off his corpse for trophies. At least the kid probably got away—

A squeal of pain from the guy furthest to his right. He crumples, revealing the kid crouched there behind him, yanking a shortsword out of the body.

Okay. Maybe he didn’t get away.

The remaining soldiers immediately begin to change formation. Where’d the kid get a shortsword? Bull glances up. No more bolter behind the bar. Kid must have surprised him and taken his backup weapon. With that other one he just killed, that makes it four against two.

Way better odds than six on one. But still, neither of them are wearing armor, and no human can take hits like Bull can, especially not a skinny kid like that.

“Alastor!” the tribune barks in Tevene. “Take the deserter!”

Oh no. Bull’s not going to let them dictate this fight. He barges right this time, his arm folded up against his exposed side. Has to get to the kid. It works. The soldier between gets out of the way so he doesn’t get pinned, and the kid turns, positioning himself back-to-back with Bull. The tribune, facing Bull, glowers. Better, but not enough. If they’re going to pull this one out, they have to use this, right now, use the shift. That’ll be a risk, which means Bull has to take it. The kid gets hit, more than likely he’s out of the fight.

Bull grabs the table by its leg and swings it, letting out a battle roar.

A table is a shit weapon. It’s not very sharp, and its weight is spread out instead of concentrated in one spot like a mace-head. But the table’s not the weapon. A soldier darts to the inside of the swing and thrusts. Bull yanks the table back and uses the leg to lever the sword up and out. Then he lashes a hand out and grabs the guy’s arm.

 _He’s_  the weapon.

He drops the table, grabs hold of the guy with both hands now, and swings him. That’s one advantage he has that the Vints can’t overcome—sheer, brute Qunari strength. The man yelps, and Bull feels the  _pop_  as the shoulder comes out of its socket. He bares his teeth in a grin. The tribune slips back, out of the path of his comrade, but Bull keeps going. His left arm’s weak—he doesn’t know what that bolt hit, but it got something. So he rotates from the hips, the soldier stumbling, crashing into one of the guys who’s bearing down on the kid. The kid doesn’t hesitate, dropping his defensive stance to jam his sword down at the fallen soldier’s head. But these guys are good, and the blow is parried into the floor. Bull, still holding on, rotates back the other way and almost catches the tribune, who’s on his way back in.

Bull’s worried about that flail but doesn’t want to leave the kid in a two-on-one situation, so he edges right, using his guy as a shield. The kid gets the message and moves with him. The guy’s he’s holding has his head back on now and throws a gauntleted punch. Bull takes it in the jaw. It hurts, yeah, but one punch isn’t gonna faze a Qunari. The fallen soldier’s trying to get back up, but Bull hooks a foot under his knee and pulls, sending him crashing to the ground again. Then Bull stomps on the same knee, twice. The kid’s too busy defending himself to put in the killing blow, which is a shame, but it’s better than him stretching his neck out to do it and getting killed along the way.

Bull swings the guy one last time, heaves him into the soldier who’s going at the kid. Knows what’s coming and throws his arm out wide left, feels the heavy flail-chain wrap around him, the shallow spikes of the head piercing his skin. He yanks, but the tribune’s already slipped the chain off, and the flail comes free.

Then he grunts in pain. His foot.  _Ow._

He glances down—just a split-second, that’s all he can spare—finds his foot pinned to the ground by a longsword. Which belongs the one whose knee he stomped on. Fuck. Bull pivots, grimacing, the blade rotating in his flesh, and crushes the guy’s face with his heel. Fuck, the tribune, the damn tribune. He’ll be going for the kid, the easier target. And Bull’s pinned here. Fuck.  _Fuck._  The kid’s way out to the side now, facing the last remaining soldier, fending off a barrage of blows. Back’s wide open. The tribune raises his flail. Fuck, fuck,  _fuck._  Can’t get to him in time. Only one thing left to do.

Bull lurches sideways.

Isn’t sure if he can even get there. He extends, swipes an arm out. Clumsy. Mistimed. He lands on his one good foot, plants a hand to keep from falling and knocking the kid over. When he looks up the flail’s right there.

He’s got a thick skull, which is probably why the flail-head stops in his eye socket and doesn’t rip his whole face open. The eye explodes in pain, so much it makes Bull nauseous. That’s how he knows it’s bad. The tribune tries to pull his weapon back, but it doesn’t come out, the spikes caught in the ridges and contours of the socket. Bull finds his head yanked forward, a painful jolt in his neck.

Stuck. The flail’s stuck. This might be the only chance he gets.

He lashes out with a roar.

Can’t see for crap—the one eye that’s left is filled up with tears. But there’s a silver shape in front of him, so he aims for it, gets something that feels like an armor plate—finds the edge, digs his fingers in, and hauls it toward him.

The silver shape stumbles forward, and the flail-head finally pops free of Bull’s broken socket. Bull blinks furiously, trying to clear his vision. Something digs at his other eye. This fucker— _“No you don’t!”_  Bull bellows, and grabs the man’s wrist, dragging it away from his face. Something in front of him, not silver—the guy’s head.

Bull rears back and headbutts the tribune.

He feels the bridge of the man’s nose break under his forehead, and a gush of blood splatters onto his face. He needs to kill this guy,  _now._  He gropes, finds the jaw, the base of the skull. Lifts and twists.

Feels the snap.

Thank fuck.

A pained yell from behind him. The kid’s been hit. Shit. Bull scrubs at his eye and whips around—tries to, his pinned foot jerking against the  _fucking_  longsword, manages an awkward half-turn. The kid’s on his ass, sword still raised. Bull grabs his shoulder and shoves him sideways. No time to be gentle. The last soldier’s longsword stabs into the ground where the kid was just sitting. Bull grabs the guy’s wrist and yanks, pulling him forward. Doesn’t really have a plan. He’s hoping the kid—

—comes in from Bull’s left, pommel braced against his palm, and drives the shortsword through the soldier’s temple and out the other side.

Bull scans, breathing hard. No more movement. They’re dead. The fuckers are all dead.

And he’s alive.

He reaches down and wrenches the sword out of his foot. Hurts. Fuck. The kid’s sitting among the bodies, his shirt sliced up, ripped off of him. Blood streams out of his nose, and he coughs a little, red saliva dribbling from his lips. One hand is pressed to his ribs, where a big slash trails down from his sternum. The other arm is wrapped across his chest. When Bull comes into his vision he flinches and tries to hunch away.

But not before Bull sees, through the faint blur of tears, what he’s trying to hide under that arm.

Oh.

Things are starting to make more sense here. Bull turns, limps to the tribune’s body, and rips off the red cloak, holding it out. “Here.”

The kid hesitates, then snatches it out of Bull’s hand, wrapping it around himself. Herself? Breasts usually mean woman, but everything else about the kid says man. Probably best to just ask, then. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now.” Bull kneels, wincing. “I’m the Iron Bull. What do you want me to call you?”

The kid stares at him, trembling a little. “You lost your eye.”

“Hm," Bull muses. "That’s a weird name.”

The kid’s expression of horror does not change. Shit. “Uh, sorry,” Bull mutters. “Bad joke.”

“You took that blow for me. You don’t even know me.”

“Yeah, that’s…kinda why I was asking your name.”

The kid tries to take a deep breath and coughs again, leaning to the side and spitting out blood. Must be a bad nosebleed. “Cremisius.” He wipes his nose. “Cremisius Aclassi.”

A man’s name. That answers that question. “Nice to meet you, then. You know, you could've run. Been a half-mile away by the time they were done with me."

"Wasn't going to just leave. They were going to kill you."

"Yeah, you're right. I'd be dead if you hadn't stayed." Bull grasps the bolt stuck in his shoulder and yanks it out. _Ow._  "Saw you defending yourself—you’re Tevinter military.”

“Was,” he mumbles. “Not anymore.”

“Not anymore, huh? You looking for a job?”

The kid watches Bull, suspicious, guarded. One of his eyes is blackened, and it’s starting to swell shut. “What d’you mean?”

“I’m the leader of a mercenary company. The Bull’s Chargers. Maybe you’ve heard of us.” Or not. Haven’t gotten many contracts yet. “We could use a guy with formal training, like you.”

Bull chose his words carefully, and he thinks it works, the kid relaxing a little at being referred to as male. But he still hesitates. “You don’t have to decide now,” Bull puts in. “But at least let me take you to our healer.”

“No.” Cremisius shakes his head firmly. “No healers.”

“I heard you yell when you took that wound.” Bull nods at him. “It sounded bad. Our healer’s a good guy, I trust him. You don’t have to talk to anyone else, if you don’t want to.”

Cremisius presses his swollen lips together. “Are you—are you going to be there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll come.” Bull struggles to his feet, holds out a hand.

Cremisius takes it and rises. “You got hurt. You’re bleeding.”

“Ah, I’ve had worse.”

“You didn’t—you didn’t have to do this. Any of this. You lost an eye.”

“Hey.” Bull reaches out, waits a second. The kid doesn’t move away. Bull grasps his shoulder. “I’d do it again. Okay? I mean that.”

Cremisius sniffles, nods, spits out some more blood.

They limp out of the tavern and up the street. The Chargers are camped about a mile north of town. The walk is silent. Bull doesn’t want to pry, and anyway, the kid’s mouth is pretty smashed, it probably hurts him to talk. In a couple of minutes they leave the town behind.

“Creators.” Dalish is the first to see them when they enter the cluster of tents. “What happened to your eye?!”

“Flail,” Bull tells her. “It’s okay, I killed the guy. Where’s Stitches?”

“This way, I think. Follow me.”

Dalish takes him to the infirmary, where Stitches is working on a couple Chargers who are still sick from their last mission. Not from enemies, just the local food. Bull jerks his head, and Stitches comes over. “You got somewhere private we can talk?” Bull asks.

Stitches lifts an eyebrow. “If you’re wondering whether or not I can make your eye grow back, I can’t.”

Bull laughs. “Nah, I know it’s fucked. This is something else.”

“Yeah, all right.”

They duck into a large tent, Bull holding the flap aside so Cremisius can enter. “This is Cremisius,” he says. “There was a fight. He got hurt.”

“Looks like it.” Stitches gestures to a cot in the corner. “Sit down. Where’re you injured?”

Cremisius hesitates, looks over at Bull. Bull nods at him. “It’s okay.”

Slowly, Cremisius unwraps the cloak and pulls his sliced-up shirt off his shoulders.

It’s a pretty good gash—starts at the top of his sternum, goes down between his breasts all the way to the bottom of his ribcage. Probably didn’t hit anything important if it skated off his ribs, but his chest and stomach are covered in blood. “Huh,” Stitches muses. “You’re not like most men, are you?”

Cremisius narrows his eyes (his eye—the other one’s so swollen he couldn’t narrow it more if he wanted to). Stitches raises his hands. “Hey, you say you’re a man, I believe you. Figure you’d know it better than me. Now lie down so I can clean that blood off.”

So Cremisius lies down, carefully. Stitches wets a cloth and rubs soap into it, then starts wiping at the wound. Cremisius winces, his jaw tightening. Still, even with the pain, he looks more relaxed now than Bull’s seen him yet.

He hasn’t accepted the job offer yet, true. But Bull has a feeling he’ll be staying. 


End file.
